Friday, February 27, 2009
But I'm a thirsty dude.
And for that I officially have phantom piss pants syndrome. It happens to all of us from time to time.
You can also get it from public restrooms that seem to always have a lake parked right at the edge of the counter. Yeah, it leaves a horizontal line of phantom piss like if you urinated like a sprinkler.
And who doesn't pee like a sprinkler?
On top of this condition, I have this killer sore throat. Imagine drinking a class of nuclear acid with shards of glass in it. It's totally what I get for not sleeping on Monday night.
I have no complaints though. I don't ask, "Why me?" when good shit falls my way. So why should I do it when life kind of starts sucking?
Besides, I have cough medicine, and my crotch is drying as we speak.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
I know that bars aren't the best places to meet women. It's just that bars are really good places to get beer and hangout with friends.
Libraries, bookstores, and churches attract far better candidates. It's just that those places are really good places to shut the fuck up and get some thinking done.
Take Barnes & Noble for instance. I see her in her really hot dress and boots studying some college bio. She sees me see her review steps of the Kreb's cycle or cell mitosis, and nothing is as hot as that. Nothing.
But unfortunately as I stated earlier, bookstores are perfect places to keep your pie-hole shut and flip through receptacles of information.
I like "Men's Health" magazine. I think the articles are fairly educational and engaging, but nothing could warrant me not even saying hello or asking about whether I could review RNA replication for a few minutes. It's actually an amazing set of steps.
But I kept reading about exercises I don't do and things that I should be eating. I kept reading like something in those pages might give me the cleverest of quips or pump me up to do something - anything.
But I kept reading, and the only thing I found out while flipping through that magazine is I might be wasting my time in the gym and that I eat like a pig.
And as I walked by her on my way out I feel the all too familiar chill of fear and apathy wash over me. The magazine was just a prop - just something to fill in the failure to act.
Where are my balls? I do own a pair somewhere. The last time I remember using them was waiting for some drunk guy's next move for whether I would attempt to shatter his orbital bone and send him falling to the floor, but I was buzzed, too. So that piece of intoxicated heroics doesn't really count.
I'll probably never bump into her again, but on the off chance I should fiend for some Starbucks and a "Transworld Surf" magazine, I'll bring along some testicular fortitude.
Or maybe I need to make like I'm in church and 1) shut the fuck up 2) stop beating my sorry ass up for being so socially retarded 3) pray for better days and 4) give thanks for the days I'm given since they pretty much rock my face off despite my occasional whining.
Oh...and 5) check out the cutie five pews up. (I know. I'm going to hell, but it's not for anything I've done in church.)
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
By my second cup, I'm usually able to punch a hummingbird's taint, hear clocks ticking 10 blocks away, and ace "Through the Fire and Flames" on expert mode on Guitar Hero. OK, I'm lying. I suck at Guitar Hero.
The usual suspects are out. I'm not hungover, depressed, playing the shit out of flash games til 2 in the morning, or sick. At least I think I'm not sick. Everybody at work is sick, and I'm a team player. So it would behoove me to be sick, too, but I'm breathing normally, not coughing, sneezing, or vomiting blood.
Yesterday, I found tickets to Europe for about $800. I also checked the line-up for this year's Bonnaroo. A comic book convention in San Diego looks cool, too. I want to shave my head and wear glasses. A buddy of mine in New York asked me if I had a publisher for the book I have yet to finish and gave me his card.
Here's the deal, dude: My brain is on a plane to Anywhere-But-Here, but my body is still in bed.
There's no cure for that.
(Fuck, I need to finish that book and dream from there.)
Monday, February 16, 2009
I love random conversations, and there are extra points for irreverent references to anything on urbandictionary.com. Sharting is one of those topics that makes me wanna...well...laugh until I shit myself.
But who in the hell does that? Who has actually shit on themselves in a non-fetish, non-last-hopped-up-night-in-Amsterdam-and-the-hooker-really-wants-shit-and-a-snowball-call kinda way? Most of that kinda crazy stuff I chock up to some sick, college-aged perv just making shit up since everything he knows about sex and life he learned from 2guys1horse.com.
It just can't be real.
Can it? Do normal, everyday, healthy people accidentally soil themselves on occasion?
Through a few excruciating conversations with random folks I guess that shitting oneself is as common as herpes in a New York subway.
And these people seem to be normal for the most part, but normal is a relative term. My disbelief was met with the matter of fact kind of reasoning of "So I was on my 10th beer, and I was a little gassy from the nachos I had earlier." The brutal honestly left no question in my mind.
Here's the deal, dude: this crap is real.
For some reason all the stories contain a theme of drinking booze like it's going outta style. Then, the storytellers seem to classify the extent in which the defecation had abruptly occurred. It's like they were meticulously relaying the last five seconds of the most epic event of all time except it contained alcohol and the Hershey squirts.
Again urbandictionary.com is the go-to site for the classification of accidental defecation. They are as follows:
Cat 1) Wet Sensation
Cat 2) Wet Underwear
Cat 3) Soak thru to inside of pants
Cat 4) Soak thru pants (Visible to general public)
Cat 5) Runs down to socks. (Oh my god, run for your life)
Anything of Category 4 or higher require showers. The lesser categories can be dealt with using alternative cleansing methods.
I for one have never fooped (a synonym for "sharted") my pants, but the stories retold to me makes me wonder if I've ever really partied like a rock star. These guys tell it like it was only a minor inconvenient joke. One guy even wiped up and proceeded to continue scouring the bar for ass. If that's not a bullgod, I don't know what is!
So shit, wassup with taking a shit in your pants, people? I wanna know about "your friend" that shit his pants while you guys were wicked drunk at O'Malley's circa 2001 or the Margarita Taco Volcano of Cinco de Mayo '99.
Let me know. I'm bored.
[This is actually a reprint of my old blog titled " Shart Anyone?" Yeah, I'm a lazy bum, but recycling is great for the environment. Plus, it does sum up my thoughts about Valentine's Day. BTW, subscribing to this blog is free for the first 2 billion people, and all proceeds go to clubbing baby seals.]
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Some of you might have jumped ship months ago to Facebook, but it's kind of the same kind of stuff. People find you, they ask you to do crazy things like add apps that exchange cyber cocktails and drinks (WTF?), they change their status, you leave comments on that aforementioned status, and everyone else leaves a comment about your comment and/or the actual person's status.
It's the evolution or de-evolution of social interaction. I can't really tell which since I'm wading waist deep in both networks. It's like the first month of dating someone - you really can't tell how shitty it really is since you're just having fun, and everything's cool.
Well, I've been going out with Myspace for like 2 billion years, and the shit has hit the fan (and I don't have a replacement fan, and I live in blog hell).
You see - I have a bad habit called blogging, and while Myspace was cool with my blogging for awhile, I've realized it's good for lots of stuff, but heavy-duty blogging isn't one of them.
So here's the deal, dude: This Blogger thing is ushering a new era of nonsensical blogs and hopefully a 5 minute break from serious everyday life.
Here's what you can expect:
1. Bizarrely long conjunctive sentences that don't express a coherent idea.
2. Fart/poop jokes, foop/shart jokes.
3. Liberal referencing of http://www.urbandictionary.com.
You haven't used urbandictionary.com?! How is that possible?! Here's some homework, slackers: look up "bag pipes", "mung", "pruno", and "Abraham Lincoln".
4. Numerical lists
Here's what you won't get:
1. Top 10 lists - all the ones I have read are wrong, which automatically elicit strong emotions, but this power comes cheaply like punching a blind, retarded kid in the face. "Why would you punch a blind, retarded kid in the face?" you ask. You wouldn't. No one should ever have to stoop that low which also applies to Top 10 lists. In the end, the writer comes off as a moron, and the reader is treated to a punch in the face. Just because you can doesn't make it right unless it's like flying or shooting rainbows from your ass. That shit is just cool - no doubt about it.
By the way, my numerical lists may appear in the same format as a Top 10 list, but there will be no ranking involved since I don't know shit about shit, and nobody would give a shit if I did. Plus, you guys don't look blind or retarded.
2. Seriousness. OK, I might have a few blogs that might be considered sad or gay, but I swear on my grave that stuff will have ninjas and partying sprinkled somewhere in it.
3. Sloths. I detest sloths. Ewwww, fucking gross....and creepy...and just all kinds of evil and wrong. I know that every living thing has a purpose, but maybe sloths were put here before that rule was made, or maybe their purpose is to evolve into man-eating monsters. Have you seen their claws?!! I think their purpose is to eat lead...from a machine gun.
That concludes my first Blogger blog. You should subscribe to my shit. Tell your freinds about this, too. It wasn't that bad, was it?